Hero of One
by SheerSaxifrage
Summary: To be her hero, he would gladly be everyone else's villain. (Or: Percy is shoved down a dark road, and reacts accordingly.) (Warnings for graphic violence, implied sexual assault, and character death.)
1. I

**I**

 _Age 7_

" _Close your eyes, and imagine the biggest thing you know. What do you see?"_

 _Percy did as he was told. He imagined their house: one story, facing north. His mother in the kitchen, cooking up some disaster. His Uncle Jakob a few feet away, berating her while he brewed his coffee. The fire going strong in the hearth. His pops tripping over something on his way to the study, where Grandpa and Aunt Flora discussed tribal matters. Dwyer in their room going over healing tomes. He was told their house was modeled in the classic style, made popular before the tribe settled on Ice Mountain: adults slept on either side of the house, the center was used for gathering, and the back was where the children and animals were kept. It made sense for the period it came from, back when they weren't so safe and invaders were common. So their rooms were big, but they were so used to peace that furniture came to clutter what should have been open, airy spaces._

 _But was his house really the biggest thing? No, there was the Ice Village itself. It took him about two hours to walk from one side of their lands to the other. Along the way he'd pass the butchers and the tailors and taxidermists, who all knew him by name as the chief's grandson. After that he'd pass the garrison, and depending on the time of dark-day he might catch a glimpse of their conscripted going through their drills. Then he'd pass the library, a whole eight stories sturdy; right next to it was the main hall, where the tribe would meet communally and Grandpa Kilma held diplomatic meetings. Past that was the Moon Shrine, where there was always at least one sorcerer doing spellwork or performing a sacrifice on behalf of the tribe. He'd pass their ice pond. He'd pass their field of sculptures, beautiful images etched in ice by their finest artists. And then, finally, he'd make it to The End, their cliff overlooking the abyss below._

 _Ice Village was big. Certainly, the biggest ever. "Our tribe," he finally answered._

 _"Are you sure? What about the mountain?"_

 _Ice Mountain, of course! The Ice Tribe wouldn't be what it was if it weren't for their mountain, the steep slope and thick forest that kept them safe from all bad guys everywhere. "Aw man, you're right! Okay, the mountain."_

 _"Ice Mountain is bigger than our village, but is it really the biggest thing in the world?"_

 _"Yeah. What else is there?"_

 _Flora cleared her throat, but didn't answer immediately. Of course, Percy knew there were things down in the world below. His father told him about Nohr and Windmire and Castle Krakenburg, but he couldn't imagine any of those places being bigger than what he grew up around._

 _Suddenly, Flora placed her hand on the back of his neck and leaned in close. "Well, guess what? The moon is even bigger than_ that _."_

 _He opened his eyes and saw his aunt with her finger in the air, pointing to the moon's lovely face._

 _"When I was a girl, I thought I was lucky to live up here, since it put me closer to the sky. But I've traveled the world, and I can tell you the moon looks the same everywhere. Strange, don't you think?" He voice lowered to a reverent whisper. "But that means no matter what happens or where we go, she stays the same. Isn't that wonderful, Percy? Isn't it?"_

* * *

His pops split his time between tribal grounds and Castle Krakenburg. Marrying into the Ice Tribe did not mean his fight for justice had ended, and he best channeled his heroism through his service to Lady Elise. The summer before he turned eight was the first time his father invited him along on one of his trips.

Both Grandpa Kilma and Aunt Flora took issue with his timing. It conflicted with their annual pilgrimage to the bottom of the mountain, where they would honor the blessings of summer and celebrate the eventual onslaught of winter. He remembered his aunt narrowing her blue eyes, her thin lips stretched taut across her face as Grandpa Kilma stressed the importance of their rituals.

Percy lowered his head, tears of anger glistening in his eyes. He'd been waiting for _ages_ for his pops to invite him to the capital, to the _castle_ , and he didn't want to miss it for some boring old tradition. Luckily, his mom was there to back him up.

"It'll be good for Percy to see Krakenburg for himself. It'll give him a chance to make friends with the royal children."

"There are plenty of children here he can spend time with," Aunt Flora quipped.

"But let me remind you, it's the royal children of today who will be running Nohr tomorrow—just as Percy will one day be involved in leading our tribe. It's good that he forms friendships with them now before politics get in the way." She let out an airy laugh. "Think of it as his first diplomatic mission!"

Percy didn't know what a 'diplomatic mission' was; it was the 'making friends' bit that caught his attention. _Friends? With the royal children?_

"Do you honestly think he'll be able to do that?" his aunt asked, mirroring his thoughts. "You know what those who live at the bottom of the mountain think of us."

"That you're hospitable? Charming? A beacon of justice to be envied near and far?" his pops interjected, the bite in his buttery words going over Percy's head. "I can assure you, I am intimately aware! And Percy is an exemplary tribesman. Wouldn't you agree, Felicia?"

His pops addressed the question to his mom, but even Percy could tell that the words were meant for Aunt Flora. But Felicia answered anyway, folding her hands over her lap as she nodded. "Sure is! The royals will _love_ him. And if he forms bonds with them now, it'll help secure our position. You can't tell me that's a bad thing, father."

Grandpa Kilma leaned back in his seat, his smoky gray eyes settling on Percy like a fog after rainfall. It was the look he gave Dwyer whenever he got it in him to supervise their studies. Percy remembered how Dwyer would always keep his head down, his unwashed hair curtaining around his face. Grandpa Kilma didn't seem to like that, his murky expression sharpening into a scowl Dwyer never saw.

So Percy met his grandfather's eyes, fighting the urge to place his hands on his hips and puff out his chest. _Be cold of heart, be stoic in character. A true Ice Tribesman is not a thin layer of frost, but a glacier that endures through time._

Language aside, even Percy knew what the admonition meant. He drew his features into one of peaceful neutrality. They were only supposed to apply their warrior's spirit to their enemies—not to fellow tribesmen, and _certainly_ never to the chief. But inside, he wanted to jump and shout. _I'll show 'em, Grandpa! I'll show 'em the strength of our tribe! They'll love us, I promise!_

"Very well. He may go, on the condition that on your way back you take him to our ritual cites." Grandpa Kilma smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling. "Our gods would certainly accept the late offerings of a sincere child."

His pops placed a hand on his shoulder. It was meant to look like a gesture of assurance, but it was really their secret code. _Keep still. We aren't alone yet._

Only when they _were_ alone did Percy throw himself into his pops' arms and thank his mom for backing him up. A vacation, not only to the bottom of the mountain, but all the way to the capital! To hang out with someone other than his dowdy cousin for once! To see what all those other people saw. It would be the best five days _ever_.

* * *

 _That night, he had a dream:_

 _In the distance, past the thicket of trees that stretched onward into The End, there was a girl riding the wind. In the pale moonlight, her face was two-toned: both enlightened and cast in shadow, illuminated in her dark dealings. She seemed to almost levitate above the wyvern she rode on, lifted up and carried in the air as though she were one with it. The dead Nohrian glades withered even more in her presence. She was covered in shimmering starlight._

* * *

Two days later, his face was buried in Lady Elise's chest. The buttons on her collar dug into his skin, but he knew better than to try and rip himself away from a royal. She was nice, otherwise. Along with Arthur, the three of them went to introduce Percy to King Xander.

When they got to the throne room, Percy kneeled before him just as he was taught, head bowed in deference. When King Xander commanded him to rise, he did so carefully in hopes that the man before him wouldn't notice his trembling knees. He had to crane his neck to look up at the king; not only did he stand on the elevated platform before his throne, but he was naturally tall besides. Definitely taller than his pops, who until then was the biggest person he'd ever known.

King Xander stared down at him, a storm brewing behind his violet eyes.

In that moment, Percy felt scared. Where did pops go? Why was the king looking at him with such disdain? He felt tears gather in his eyes, but he forced them back. _Be cold of heart, be stoic in character. A true Ice Tribesman is not a thin layer of frost—_

"This is your son, Arthur?" he asked flatly.

"Yes, milord."

"Fourth in line to the chief's chair."

"Yes."

"He doesn't look like your typical Ice Tribesman."

Arthur didn't respond to this. Percy could hardly think of an answer himself. What was an Ice Tribesman 'supposed' to look like?

"He has his mother's eyes," the king murmured, almost as an afterthought.

"He does."

"Summer is coming to an end. Does he not observe the Ice Tribe's rituals? A lack of piety is a worrisome trait, even in young children."

"Chief Kilma has assured me that the gods of the Ice Tribe will accept his late offerings."

King Xander's face split open in a skittish smile, the corners of his mouth trembling as they twitched upward. "Somehow, I doubt that."

Once again, Arthur did not respond. A few moments of stale silence passed, King Xander never once looking away from the boy, sizing him up under his heavy gaze. But eventually, he slowly lifted his chin towards the exit. "He may go."

Percy expected his pops to come get him, but when he turned, he saw what _had_ to be Lady Peri approaching him. She was just as Arthur described: wild two-toned hair, wide eyes, and caked-on makeup. She extended her hand to him. "C'mon, let's go!"

Her tone was cheerful, but Percy did not want to take her hand. He fought the urge to cry, recoil in fear, and run over to his pops. There was something not quite _right_ with her, something darker lurking beneath her sweet, wide smile. Back home, his pops was always quick to whisk him away from old women who wanted to pinch his cheeks and enthusiastic generals who wanted to start his training a few years early. Why wasn't he coming to save him now?

Lady Peri bent forward and whispered, "hey, hey: now's the part where you take my hand, and I take you to play with my son and the other royal babies. Unless," her unblinking eyes seemed to grow even larger, "you wanna stay here with King Xander…?"

Percy's immediately took her hand, much more willing to risk whatever evil Lady Peri had planned than suffer under the king's heavy gaze for a moment longer. She nearly dragged him out of the throne room, and then down several winding corridors. Soon they were before a large set of ironclad doors, an effigy of the Dusk Dragon guarding the entrance from above. Lady Peri opened it, and enthusiastically waved him inside. Being the unwavering tribesman he was supposed to be, Percy obliged.

The first thing he heard upon entering the room was a sharp gasp. "Auntie, please! We're indecent!"

Percy peeked out from behind Lady Peri, and saw four children in various states of play. The boy who spoke was on his knees, carrying a small girl on his back. The girl had a bed sheet tied around her neck and a wooden sword in her hand; she was obviously engaged in mock battle against another girl with lavender braids, who held a thin book of spells in her hand. And the last child—the prettiest by far—sat at the dresser, experimenting with various ribbons.

"'Indecent'?!" Lady Peri placed a hand to her chest, eyebrows furrowed in anger. "Was it 'indecent' when me and King Garon and everybody went in to slaughter the Chevois? Was it 'indecent' when we defeated their rebels, put their severed heads on spikes, and drove their evil leader into exile? Was it _'indecent'_ when we came home victorious, covered in the blood and guts of—"

"Mother, _please,"_ the child at the dresser pleaded, his expression the very vision of perfect stoicism that Percy always aspired to, but could never achieve.

Lady Peri cleared her throat, all smiles again. "Battles, mock or otherwise, are far from 'indecent'! And," she turned to Percy, "I'm sure our new friend would agree! This is Percy, fourth in line to the Ice Tribe!"

Percy stepped out from behind Lady Peri, and resisted the urge to jump up, wave, ask if he could join their play session. He instead bowed in deference, as was proper. "Pleased to meet—"

"Wait! I know who you are!" the girl with the wooden sword jumped off her cousin's back and sprinted over to him. "You're Arthur's son! Yes! Mom told me all about you!"

"Oh boy, she did?" Percy studied the girl's face. There was something familiar about her, like he once saw her features on somebody else. Her cloudy grey eyes, her wispy blonde hair, her porcelain skin, her bubbly manner…

"Yes! And she was right, you really _are_ cool looking..." She took a step back and studied him, lightly stroking the black feathers that framed his collar.

Percy thought about who her mother might be. She was a royal, so that narrowed it down considerably. He knew the king and queen had one son; the king's three younger siblings also only had one child each. And she couldn't be Lady Peri's daughter, the boy sitting at the dresser already addressed her as such.

He glanced behind the girl's shoulder and caught sight of the mock spellcaster with lavender braids. If he remembered it right, only one of the siblings wasn't a natural blonde, and it was Lady Camilla. So that only left…

Percy grinned. "Wow, Lady Elise sure knows how to talk a guy up!" She paused mid-stoke, wide eyes flickering up to meet his. "But pops told me a lot about you too, _Princess Ophelia_. I'm so happy I finally get to see you myself!"

An impish smile spread across Princess Ophelia's face. "Well, we should get to know each other better. And that means meeting my siblings!" She grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him over to meet the other royal children. "The valiant horse is Siegbert, the wicked diviner is Nina, and the beautiful hostage is Forrest."

"I said I wasn't playing," Prince Forrest remarked dryly, idly examining another ribbon.

Unfazed, Princess Ophelia turned back to Percy. "Would you like to join us? You can be the noble chief who comes to aide me in my fight for justice."

"J-justice…?" Percy whispered, interest piqued.

Lady Peri soon left the bundle of children to their own devices, and in the absence of watchful eyes they created an elaborate war game. Opehlia was the brave warrior who was of royal blood, but unaware of it. Percy was the sagely chief who taught the hotheaded warrior valuable lessons about mercy and forgiveness. And those lessons aided her in her quest to rescue the blissfully unaware lord from the clutches of the most evil, most cunning witch to ever crawl out of Hoshido.

In the end, the warrior discovered that she was of royal blood. She and her chief rode into battle against the vile diviner, and at the last moment, when all hope seemed lost, the warrior revealed her true lineage. "Can you really stand up to the blood of the Dusk Dragon?!" she cried out dramatically, and in an instant her body— _Princess Ophelia's_ body—glowed. A ball of light rose from her chest and fell back to the ground.

The entire room shimmered with translucent flakes of light, dancing around the royal children. The diviner clutched her chest and screamed, falling to the floor in convulsions before finally going stiff.

"Yes, victory!" Princess Ophelia threw her arm around Percy's shoulders. "Come, my good chief! Let's go get the helpless lord-"

"But I said I wasn't playing."

"—so I can drop down on one knee, and ask if he wants to get married!"

"Stop that. We're related."

But Percy had already forgotten the game. "Golly gee, how'd you do that?!"

"Why, you saw how I won, my chief!"

Percy shook himself out of her grasp, turning to face her. "I'm serious, princess! You did something to the ground!"

The girl blinked, woken from her playtime spell. "Oh, that? You've never seen a Dragon Vein before? I thought your father would've told you."

"He did, but I thought they were for battle! I didn't think one of them could be so… _pretty_."

"They usually aren't," Nina explained, sitting up. "What you just saw is one of the rare harmless ones."

"Yes. Its pulse is also unusually faint. It was grandfather who first found it, not long after I was born," Prince Siegbert continued. "He activated it, and I was the only one effected. So he said the area was 'blessed with innocence'.'" He shrugged. "Or at least, that's how mother describes it. So he had the room built for me, and it was expanded when everyone else was born so we could all stay here. The dragon vein is in the center, if you haven't noticed."

Percy walked over to where Princess Ophelia was. "It's here?"

She nodded, and Percy tried to see if he could feel the Dragon Vein himself. He jumped up and down on the spot. "Doesn't seem so special to me," he quipped, already comfortable with the royal children. "What does it feel like for you guys?"

"Like we're being pulled down into the earth… and when we activate it, it's like pulling that energy up through our bodies," Prince Siegbert explained. "Though I'm sure that sounds a bit confusing…"

"Nope! It makes sense." He grinned. "What a wicked-cool power!"

* * *

That night, Percy was supposed to sleep in the same room as his father; but at the insistence of the royal children, he spent the night with them instead. A servant then brought in a bed for him to sleep in, but Princess Ophelia asked him to share a bed with her.

"It's so hot!" she explained, laying down and patting the spot beside her as a way of welcoming him in. "Mom tells me that people from your tribe are always cold, no matter what time of year. I'd be so happy if you stayed here with me."

Percy placed his hands on his hips. "Is that a _royal decree?"_ he teased.

The youngest princess turned her nose up in the air, trying her best not to smile. "Of course! Everything I say is!"

So they slept facing each other, the princess chatting away about her 'siblings' and the court and her magical lessons. She told him about her grandfather, King Garon, who passed away the year before. She remembered him not as the warlord her aunt described, but as the playful man who let her ride on his shoulders, the patriot who showed her the greatness of Nohr, the astronomer who taught her about the stars. But her chatting came to a halt when he asked her about King Xander.

"Uncle is… okay," she finally whispered, eyes averted. "He's doing his best."

* * *

He didn't bring up King Xander for the rest of his stay there. He instead did what the royal children wanted to do, which included more war games, running through the castle halls, visiting the stable animals, storytime with Lady Camilla and Lady Elise. When it came time for them to leave, the royal children asked if he was coming back. Percy said he would.

Suddenly, Princess Ophelia came up and threw her arms around him. She held him that way for what felt like a long time. "You promise...?"

She almost sounded sad. If he wasn't coming back before, he had to now. "Yeah," he hugged her in return. "I promise!"

* * *

On the way home, Percy chattered on and on about the trip. He thought Krakenburg was amazing, it's circular, concave structure unique to anything he'd ever seen before. He also noticed how the streets of Windmire curved around the castle. It reminded him of one of their effigies of the moon, carved into a sheet of ice with lines etched around it to symbolize her ethereal glow. So Krakenburg was like the moon, then? Were the citizens like stars? Arthur ruffled his hair, and said he had a mind like his aunt.

"I like the kids there. I made so many new friends!"

"I'm glad you did, son! Lady Elise told me they like you, too. They don't get to meet kids their age too often." Arthur stroked the back of Percy's head. "But I'm sure you're tired and ready to go home, right?"

"Well... I am. I do miss mom and Dwyer and everybody else. But I wanna go back soon! We can, right?"

"Of course! King Xander told me so himself: you can come back _anytime_."

* * *

 _There was a divide between what people knew about the Shrine Attack, and what actually happened._

 _Years later, when he told people his heritage and they finally stopped soiling themselves, the first question would always be:_ were you there for the Shrine Attack?

 _And he would tell them the truth_ : no, I wasn't. _He and Arthur had been away at Krakenburg at the time. Ophelia would usually jump in at this point, waxing poetic about how fate favored both him and his father, how her retainer was born under a blessed star, how the gods were certainly thinking of her when they made Percy, because what else could explain such a miraculous stroke of luck?_

 _Percy would never say it to her face, but he didn't agree. He hated that his luck kept him from living though that first attack, the one that changed everything. He wished he'd been there to see the progression, because nothing—not any of the violence and misfortune to come—shocked him as much as coming back did._

 _When he left, the Ice Tribe was located on Ice Mountain, where everybody knew everybody and nobody locked their doors. It was where he lived with his family, all under one roof: him, his mom, his pops, Aunt Flora, Uncle Jakob, Grandpa Kilma, and Dwyer. The simple things that made up his world._

 _On their way back he and Arthur came to the Woods of the Forlorn, expecting the isolated area to be their last stop before reaching the shrine at the base of the mountain. Instead, the place was littered with Ice Tribesmen: scattered on the ground, moaning in pain, tending to their burn wounds. All faces Percy recognized._

 _The town baker lost his right arm from the elbow down, bloodied bandages wrapped tightly around the stump as he stared blankly at the ground. The taxidermist had half her face burned, cheek nearly melted though; she lay on the side where her face wasn't injured, screaming from some deep guttural part of her throat. The general's son had been stabbed though, staring up at the sky and murmuring his prayers as his life slipped away. He saw several women with blood leaking out from under their skirts, trickling down their ankles and getting lost in the mossy swamp ground. Children he went to school with, crying hard for parents who were probably dead._

 _There came a point where Arthur abruptly slammed his hand over Percy's eyes. They then made a sharp left turn. The air smelled like someone was trying to cook spoiled meat, and he begged his pops to tell him what was going on. But as he did in Krakenburg before King Xander, Arthur did not respond._

 _When he finally lifted his hand from Percy's face, they were standing in front of his mom. Felicia's pretty white dress was soiled and torn, black feathers strewn about her. The ends of her blossom colored hair were charred, and Percy swore her pale blue eyes had grown a shade darker. Around her, fireflies swarmed._

 _The first thing she did was fall to her knees and pull Percy in to a hug. She held him tighter than she ever had before, slowly stroking the back of his head, her chest hitching at certain points. She pressed her soft cheek against his, and he could feel the dampness. His mother—who always carried the faint hint of flowers—smelled like smoke._

 _When she finally let go, she got up and hugged Arthur in the same bone-crushing way. He held her close and murmured something into her ear. For years after Percy would wonder what his father said, because whatever it was finally caused Felicia to break. She tilted her head back and sobbed to the sky, knees buckling beneath her as she collapsed into Arthur's arms._

 _Seeing Felicia's condition disturbed Percy beyond words. He backed away involuntarily, slamming against a dead tree._

 _And it was then when_ it _happened, the sound and sight that came to define the entire event to him. Behind him, he suddenly heard someone else wail even louder than Felicia. A voice he knew too well._

 _"Mom, no! Mom, please! No no no!"_

 _Everything came to a standstill, the air around him thick like molasses. Percy turned on his heel to face Dwyer and whatever it was Aunt Flora was doing to him. He saw the family unit of three, and each became subjects in themselves:_

 _Uncle Jakob was lying limp on the ground, his charred and blackened face staring blankly in Percy's direction. Several Ice Tribesmen were pinning Dwyer down as he struggled, every part of him moving except for his mangled left leg, covered in blood. And his Aunt Flora—with her grim determination, and the inner strength of one thousand men—stared down at her son with her steely gaze, axe raised high above her head._

 _It came down. She severed Dwyer's ruined leg from the rest of his body. The sharp sound of steel crunching against bone cut through the air. Dwyer abruptly stopped screaming, his entire body gone rigid from the shock. Blood spattered across Flora's face and chest. As the other Ice Tribesmen tended to Dwyer, Flora slowly turned to face Percy._

 _And everything was fast again. Felicia sprinted over to Flora as Arthur picked him up, carrying him away in the opposite direction. Percy's eye's darted everywhere, but he could still feel his aunt's crushing gaze on him._ And where were you. And where were you. And where were you.

* * *

 _At least in Nohr, most people simply thought of the Shrine Attack as the official start to the Ice-Flame War._

 _But it was more than that. It was the end of an age._


	2. II

**II**

 _age 8  
_

 _Back home, he and Dwyer were expected to wake up at the sixth hour of every dark-day._

 _For Percy this was never a problem. Sleep would leave him as casually as it came, his eyes always lifting open just when he needed to be awake. He'd get up and open the window, allowing the brisk morning air to do away with every ounce of drowsiness he had. Sometimes, he even woke up before his parents._

 _Dwyer was another case. A night where it only took him an hour to fall asleep was considered a success, since it usually took him three or more. Percy would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night with the intention of sneaking out, only to turn and see his cousin staring up at the ceiling with a look of vague annoyance on his face._

 _It wasn't something either of their mothers could heal, so he was forced to live with it. Every morning Percy was the one to wake Dwyer up, placing a hand on his cheek and channeling his inner cold onto his cousin. That never failed to jolt him awake, but he became sluggish again after that. He'd shift around in bed for a few minutes before half-heartedly sitting up; he'd then go on to stare blankly at the space around him, exhaustion still evident on his face._

 _By this point, Percy would already be dressed. He'd bounce into the kitchen and greet the rest of his family. He always sat right next to Arthur; Grandpa Kilma sat at the head of the table. He'd talk with his father and grandfather while he snarfed down his breakfast. They always humored Percy's interests, engaging him in his talk of wyverns and superheroes and justice, and Chief Kilma in particular was all patience and good humor when around with his beloved grandson. It was usually just as Percy was wrapping up that Dwyer would come shuffling in._

 _And he was always a sight: poor posture, unwashed hair, clothes in disarray. Uncle Jakob never failed to pounce on his son as soon as he walked through the door._

 _"Ah, I see the young chief got it in him to finally wake up!" he might sneer. Or, "I hope you don't think we saved any food for you." Or even, "You wouldn't survive a day at Castle Krakenburg. For the tribe's sake I hope you never ascend to the chair."_

 _The words never seemed to faze his cousin; he'd simply stare at his father impassively, unmoved by his rancor. What Dwyer never seemed to notice was Flora's pursed lips, or Arthur's averted gaze, or the utter disappointment that radiated from their grandfather._

 _His shiftlessness began in the morning and extended throughout the day. They were never on time because of Dwyer's shuffling. He never did his homework, did little to participate in class, dispassionately did his chores, and didn't ever appear to be listening when Flora or Grandpa Kilma sat him down and tried to teach him the basics of leading the tribe._

 _One day Percy asked Dwyer why he acted the way he did. His cousin's response surprised him._

" _Because none of it matters," Dwyer told him. They sat at the edge of the tribe's ice pond, Dwyer looking pensively at his reflection. Percy tried to wrap his head around what was just said to him:_ school doesn't matter? The tribe doesn't matter? What about our family? What about the moon? _Dwyer must have sensed his confusion, because he elaborated:_

" _What I mean is, nothing_ I _do matters. Dad's always gonna hate me. Mom's always gonna expect more. Your parents will always pity me. You'll always be grandpa's favorite. The tribe will always pray that I never become chief. I can't do anything to change it, so what's the point of trying?"_

 _Dwyer looked at him with mouse eyes. Percy wanted to destroy those villainous feelings of inadequacy, but all he could do to battle them was insist "that's not true!"_

 _At once the look was gone. In its place stood a monumental barrier, one he could never topple with idealism alone. "It_ is _true, but it's fine. I'm happy with myself. Really, I am. Why should I change" he tilted his head, a small smile ghosting across his face, "when_ I'm _not the asshole?"_

* * *

Right after the Shrine Attack, Dwyer never slept. Neither did Percy.

At home they slept a few feet from each other, but in the Woods of the Forlorn they were made to sleep side-by-side on the ground. Dwyer spent all his time curled in a ball, mewling in agony. He shook violently from the pain. He would occasionally reach up to scratch or smack his left leg, and when his tiny hands grabbed at nothing he would curl up even tighter, sobbing into his right knee.

Percy could do nothing to put him at ease. His cousin didn't want to be touched, and his mind was so far off that he barely registered any words of comfort. Percy could only watch his bloody stump for any sign of infection and rub salve on his burn wounds whenever the pain became too great.

He wondered what his Uncle Jakob would have thought of his son's condition, had he lived. Would this have been the breaking point, the moment he finally felt a pang of sympathy for his son? Or would his hard heart prove to be unmovable even in such dire circumstances?

Aunt Flora wasn't much help. She barely came to see them, spending most of her time leading the search effort to find Grandpa Kilma. Whenever she came around all she'd do is ask Felicia how he was doing, and once she got her report she'd set out again. She never once looked at her son, who would watch her the entire time with blank, soulless eyes.

One day Percy couldn't take it anymore. He had to know, or he'd just die. "Hey mom?"

She was throwing wild herbs in her cauldron. Without looking up for her work, she smiled in greeting. "Yes, sweetie?"

Percy looked around cautiously. Dwyer was well out of earshot and there wasn't anyone else around, but he still thought it wise to lean in and whisper. "Why did Aunt Flora cut off Dwyer's leg?"

Felicia froze. She stood there with her hand over the cauldron, fist clenched around a bushel of the latest mystery herb. "Oh, well… that's…" She sighed heavily, arm falling back to her side. "It's because Dwyer was hurt very, very badly. So badly that he never would have healed. If she let him keep it, he would have gotten an infection and died." She crouched down so she could meet him at eye level. "I know it may be hard to understand, but Aunt Flora did what she did because she _loves_ Dwyer."

"So… it's okay to hurt the people you love?"

She took his face in her hands. " _Only_ if it's to save them, and _only_ if you have no other choice."

"You would've done the same thing for me, then?"

His mom stared at him for what felt like a long time. "Sweetheart, do you know how much I love you?"

Percy smiled. He knew this game. "To the moon and the stars and back!"

Felicia laughed shortly, before shaking her head. "Wrong. I love you even more than _that_. Think all the way across the universe."

He was taken aback. "Really?!"

She nodded. "Just like the universe, my love for you never ends. So yes," she furrowed her brows, her pretty blue eyes filled with determination. "I _would_ do the same for you. If your life was in danger I would do anything to save it, even if it meant hurting you. Or myself."

* * *

Percy turned eight years old in the Woods of the Forlorn.

What usually happened for his birthday was he would be allowed to stay home from school. He and Arthur would go into town and his pops would treat him to a new toy. After that they'd wander through the woods, his pops regaling him with his tales of heroism both before and during his service to Lady Elise.

When school let out, they'd go pick up Dwyer. Then the lot of them would go home where Felicia would be finishing up his birthday pastry. The kitchen would be a mess, there would be several burnt failures piled high in the trash, but the one she presented to him never failed to be perfect.

They would sing him his birthday song and all have a piece of the pastry. Grandpa Kilma, Aunt Flora, and Uncle Jakob would come home a few hours later, bearing gifts sent from people around the tribe. All of them were things he had no current interest in or immediate use for, like armor for when he started his training, books without any pictures in them, and clothes several sizes too big. It was tradition to send children gifts they would only want or need in the future as a way of wishing long life upon them. To many in the tribe, it was _Arthur_ who was thought of as offbeat for always treating his son to something he chose himself.

But for his eighth birthday, none of the above was possible. His pops was leading a larger effort on the borders of the forest to keep the siege at bay, and he couldn't afford to take a break from that. His mom spent most of her time gathering and boiling and testing and serving up wild herbs and vegetables. Dwyer was too consumed by his pain to pay attention to much of anything. Aunt Flora was still out looking for Grandpa, and Uncle Jakob was dead.

So Percy played with ladybugs. He picked up snails and let them slither up and down his arms. Mom told him to never touch the brightly colored mushrooms, so he admired them visually instead. He ran his fingers against the groves of withered tree bark. He counted the fireflies swarming around Dwyer, nice sprites keeping watch over his wounded cousin.

That night, he overheard his parents talking.

"Another skirmish?" he could hear the frown in his mom's voice.

"I'm afraid so, my dear. But not to worry! We dispatched those unjust fiends with hardly a dent in our own numbers!"

"I can see some dents in your armor, though."

"Oh, that? I merely tripped and fell on a cluster of particularly pointy rocks. Don't vex yourself over it."

Felicia didn't answer immediately, and even at his young age Percy wasn't sure he believed his father either. "Well, is there any sign of them stopping?"

"The Flame Tribe is… quite determined. But," and here, Percy could practically see his father's heroic grin, "so am I!"

"I know you are," his mom whispered. "But we can't stay like this forever. Have you cleared a path back up the mountain?"

"I'm afraid not. Scores of Flame Tribesmen still block every viable path." Arthur sighed. "Attacking them there would require every soldier we have. It would leave the rest of you vulnerable, and that isn't a gamble I'm willing to take."

Knowing his mother, she was probably wringing her hands. "Maybe… we should seek help from Nohr." Arthur didn't respond, but Percy knew he at least had to make some sort of gesture. Looking pointedly away? Shaking his head? Whatever it was, it set Felicia off. _"_ Why not?!"

"Because…" Arthur paused, and when he spoke again Percy heard a clear edge in his voice that hadn't been there before. "Our new king isn't big on providing what he so charmingly refers to as ' _charity'_."

"What do you mean, ' _charity'_? This is a matter of national security!" Felicia sounded angry now. "The Flame Tribe isn't any more independent from Hoshido as we are from Nohr. This is an _invasion."_ He could hear her pacing across the mossy swamp ground. "Just last year, the Ice Tribe was referred to as ' _one of Nohr's most loyal and cherished territories'_. We've never rebelled against the crown. To come to our aide would be the same as when Nohrian forces went in to suppress the Hoshidan sympathizers in Cheve."

"I agree, but all that was said and done under King Garon—may he rest in peace with the Dusk Dragon. King Xander is taking things in a new direction, and he prioritizes the capital above all else."

A long silence passed between them. Percy leaned against the back of the tree he was stationed behind, tilting his head to look at the moon. So, King Xander didn't want to help them? It'd only been a few weeks since he met the king, but it felt like ages since he'd given any thought to the broad-shouldered man who towered above everyone in Krakenburg. His gaze was inscrutable, Percy knew that firsthand, and he could see him giving Arthur that same disparaging look before denying his request for aide. Percy couldn't imagine King Xander helping anyone, really.

"What about Lady Elise?" she whispered.

"Er, no. She can't help much help anyway."

"She's a princess," Felicia countered shortly.

"King Xander is iron-fisted. His siblings hold no power and very little sway."

"Who's to say the king even has to know? They say the bright light of Nohr is a bit of a trickster."

"People exaggerate! A handful of pranks and secret trips to the Underground does _not_ make her a master manipulator." Arthur exhaled hard. "But… Lady Elise _is_ one of the most just people I know. She would help us, but it would be extremely limited."

"Limited to what? How many men could she send?"

"Effie." He paused. " _Perhaps_ Lord Odin if Lord Leo hasn't sent him on some heroic mission."

"That's all?"

"King Xander is quite preoccupied with the national army, I doubt she could move anyone there without attracting attention."

"What about supplies?"

"I'm not sure."

"Well…" Percy could hear the nervous uptick in her voice. "It's better than nothing—"

"And what if one of them died in battle? Lady Elise would be devastated, and how would Lord Odin's sudden death be explained to the king?"

"He got lost in an epic daydream and wandered onto a battle scene, getting scorched to a crisp. He botched a teleportation spell and wound up on the business end of a flame club. He decided to honor the barbarians with one of his Monologues of Pitch Darkness and got clobbered for his trouble." Of all things, Felicia laughed. "I think you're forgetting I once knew Odin well, and long before he married the princess."

"Felicia—"

"The frontliners will be able to deal with your absence for a few days." She lowered her voice. "You know we can't go on like this. This is our only hope."

Arthur left an hour later. Percy pretended to be asleep when he came to say goodbye, knowing he'd be too tempted go along if he actually saw his father leave.

* * *

Life went on as usual for three more days. On the fourth, it was over.

That was the only way Percy could think of it in hindsight. If the Shrine Attack was the end of an age, the Second Attack was the end of making snow angels and laughing with his mouth open and believing his parents were eternal and immutable. They weren't. Nothing was.

He couldn't go to sleep on his own anymore, but if enough time passed his body would simply shut down out of exhaustion. He could always tell when it was coming. Right before the sweet darkness washed over his head he'd felt warm in a way Ice Tribesmen never do. It was comparable only to when he and his mother sat on the side of the mountain, looking up at the moon, his head against her chest. (No one else's heartbeat would ever sound as sweet as hers.)

It was after one of those times that Percy was awoken by the sound of steel cutting through air. His eyes shot open just as the weapon hit the tree, inches above his head.

 _"Bastard!"_

Percy never heard his mom swear before. Why would she use such a naughty word? And why was that weapon shaped so funny? Who ever thought to use a circular dagger?

Beside him, Dwyer had already sat up. He was peeking around the edge of the tree, in the opposite direction from which the weapon came. He grabbed Percy's upper arm and shifted his weight to his right, looking ready to roll over. "C'mon."

"Wait!" Percy tried to free himself, but his cousin's grip was surprisingly firm. "Mom's in trouble! We can't just—"  
 _"We're_ in trouble!" Dwyer rasped. He turned to his right and dragged both himself and Percy around the base of the tree, unmoved by his cousin's squirming. When they made it around the tree and away from the clearing where the battle was taking place, Dwyer threw himself on top of Percy to keep him from running. Percy was strong, but no match for his cousin's dead weight.

"What are you doing?! Lemme go, _please_ let me go, I can't just leave her—!"

"Auntie'll be fine." His apathetic slur was back. "She's got a weapon. We don't. Trust me, we're better off hiding."

"Why are you doing this?" they heard Felicia ask. Both boys fell silent. "You're not even a Flame Tribesman!"

"Do you say that because of my complexion? Because I wield shirukin instead of flame clubs? Because I don't sport the same facial markings as the rest of them?" His voice was like spring water—calm, but incredibly rich. Beautiful, even. "How presumptuous. Tell me, where is your husband's dagger? Where are _his_ black feathers?"

"You know about Arthur?"

"I know about your entire family. I've been watching you for a while now." He chuckled. "What a treacherous climate! It truly put my training to the test. How your husband and brother-in-law adapted, I'll never know."

He was talking like they were old friends, like his tribe wasn't trying to decimate theirs, like he didn't just try to kill them with his strange circle-knife.

"Why were you watching us? Why did you attack us so viciously?"

"Because every crime under the sun must be accounted for."

"What crime?"

"Your people decimated a certain Hoshidan village. That village…" he paused. "… what you did has put the Flame Tribe in a precarious position. It doesn't matter what your reasons were. We are here to make sure your crime is paid for in _full._ "

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Our tribe only comes down at the end of each season."

"Yes, and the attack took place at the end of spring."

"We haven't attacked anyone since we settled on Ice Mountain five hundred years ago. There's been no reason to."

"Again, I have no interest in your motive. We have definitive proof that it was your tribe that destroyed my—!" the voice stopped, but when he picked up again Percy practically _feel_ his white knuckles curled into a fist. "I'll put this in words you can understand. I have a daughter the same age as your son. Your actions have put her at risk of dying a slow, painful death. Things have been dire since last season, and if things do not change soon… well. It's only fitting that you see what I've seen, heard what I've heard, and know what I know."

There was a rustle through the trees and then suddenly, the man was standing before him and Dwyer.

"So the rumors are true." He eyed Dwyer's stump. "Your new chief is more brutal than your last."

They said all Flame Tribesmen had eyes that burned with passion and fury, but when the boys looked up at the ninja they saw a smoldering disdain comparable only to King Xander. Fireflies swarmed around him. He held another circular dagger pinched between his fingertips, ready to attack with the flick of his wrist.

"Tell me Felicia, why is Percy's life more valuable than my daughter's?"

His mom was still behind them, not having moved since the ninja came before them. "Get away from him," she whispered, voice quaking.

"Wrong answer. It should be obvious: his life is no more precious than hers. Your son enjoys playing the hero. My daughter finds joy in making medicine. Your child likes war games. Mine likes practicing her marksmanship. Percy is now third in line to the chief's chair. Midori is first. They are the same: innocent, blameless children." He was glaring behind them now, directly at Felicia. "So tell me, what gave you the right to put her life in danger? To forsake giving thanks to your useless gods, to invade Hoshido and destroy Igasato for…!" He lifted his hand and tossed the shirukin again, landing it just above Percy's head. Felicia shrieked. _"For what?!"_

Dwyer was shaking. Behind them Percy could hear his mom's hitched sobbing, her desperate gasps—the most horrible sound in the world. "Don't hurt him, please, please don't hurt my baby…"

The ninja smiled, but just like King Xander's it was shaky and twisted. "I felt the way you feel now, not long ago. My daughter and I were out in the forest gathering herbs when she suddenly tipped backwards and collapsed onto the ground. I brought her back to our home as fast as I could, my wife summoned every healer from every one of our villages, but there was nothing they could do. Her pulse was so faint. Her eyes were so sunken. We thought we would lose her, but they say the God of Flame pays special attention to the prayers of parents. She eventually regained consciousness and is with us still." He pointed at Felicia, his other four fingers wrapped around another blade. "But know this, daughter of the late Chief Kilma: it's the actions of _your_ people that did that to her and so many others in our tribe. Every sin under the sun must be accounted for. Know that the day that I bury my daughter is the night you bury your son."

Behind them, Felicia continued to cry. Percy drew his knees to his chest, paralyzed by the knowledge that the ninja was willing to kill him, and all just to hurt his mom. He didn't think he'd feel safe again, not for as long as he lived.

Suddenly, a dagger shot through the air—but it didn't come straight ahead, as it would've if it had come from Felicia. Instead it shot up from the ground and was aimed at the ninja's neck. He dodged it easily before honing in on the source. "Ah, so you train even your children to fight. How savage of you."

Dwyer was paralyzed in place, arm still extended outward from where he'd let his dagger fly. Percy could hardly wrap his head over what had just happened.

"You ought to be more careful." The ninja took a step forward. "In battle, every 'warrior' is fair game..."

"No," Felicia gasped. "Percy is a good boy, he didn't mean to—!"

The ninja's blade gleamed in the moonlight. "And I promise you, my weapon is much sharper than yours…"

 _"Stop it!"_

Felicia shot a dagger at him, and the ninja dodged again. He then jumped up into the trees and landed before the ice princess. Percy squirmed out from beneath his cousin—much easier now that he was frozen in shock. But by the time he made it around the tree, it was already over:

The ninja was gone. So was his mom. She laid collapsed in the center of the clearing, blood pumping out of the gash on her neck.

* * *

The Second Attack was granted a generic name because it couldn't be compared to the Shrine Attack's carnage. There was no widespread loss of property, no burn victims or amputees. It was a battle between two where just one walked away, but Percy still felt like the color had drained out of his world.

He sat at the base of the tree all night, too afraid to approach Felicia's corpse. He hoped (and even half-expected) her to stir, sit up again, wrap her hand around her wound and heal herself. There were still many moons for them to look up at together. She had to get up, so when the path cleared she could go home with them again. The swamp-woods wasn't for her, she belonged at the top of Ice Mountain. As close to the sky as could be.

But when his Aunt Flora came at the start of the dark day and fell to her knees at the sight of her sister, Percy knew it was real. The horrible baby-cry he'd been holding in came crashing out; Flora rushed over. _Where's Dwyer, where's Dwyer,_ she asked again and again. They walked around the tree and found him lying on his side, with that same infuriatingly aimless stare.

Arthur returned later that day—followed by Effie, and Lord Odin, and a small ragtag army several-hundred strong. What followed was the Battle of the Bridge, where the Flame Tribe was pinned between Arthur's army and the Ice Tribe frontliners near the bridge separating the Woods of the Forlorn from Fort Dragonfall. More and more Flame Tribesmen were called away from their stations to fight at the bridge, leaving pathways open at the edges of the forest; however, the soldiers blocking the pathways back up the mountain were never recalled. So they pressed outward, further still from the home, carrying the wounded on their backs and the dead in traveling wagons.

Percy remained glued at Aunt Flora's side, but he caught glimpse of the army Arthur had amassed as they escaped the woods. Almost all of them were men. They fought without armor, dressed in rags and covered in scars, relishing in the carnage and executing whoever was foolish enough to surrender (regardless of which side they were on). Even Percy knew that they couldn't be part of the national army, but when he asked Flora who they were all she said was, "they're heroes."

 _Heroes._ Then his pops had to be the greatest hero of all, being the one who brought them together. And surely a hero that great could close the gaping hole in his chest. He hadn't seen Felicia since they'd thrown her limp body into the back of the wagon, but his pops could make her better, couldn't he? Just one look from a true hero could bring someone back to life. He had to believe it was possible. Heroes could do anything.

But when the battle finally ended three days later and Arthur met them at Fort Dragonfall, he didn't bring Felicia back to life. He couldn't. Aunt Flora had kept her corpse frozen to prevent decay, and all he did was hold her tiny blue hand. He stood that way for hours. Percy was sure his pops didn't even notice him watching from afar.

* * *

 _Percy and Dwyer never spoke about the Second Attack._

 _Years later when Percy went to visit, he and Dwyer would eat their meals seated at opposite ends of their large, rectangular table. When they were young Dwyer always wrote off the unity between them and Percy never thought they could lose it; but once it was gone, there was a long stretch of empty space between them that could never be filled. Their conversations were always stiff:_

How's the princess?

Fine. How's the tribe?

Okay.

You need any more money?

We always need more money.

I'll see what I can do.

Thanks.

 _Their ghostly conversations would sometimes be pockmarked by crows squawking in the distance, or the low rumbling of thunder, or the ticking of their grandfather clock. They rarely looked directly at each other, but when they did Percy's sight always snagged on the wrinkles around his cousin's deep-set eyes, or the permanent tremble in his hands, or how his face was forever wan with dread._

 _Percy knew most of the tribe considered him to be lucky. He wasn't present for most of the war, nestled behind the Dusk Dragon's impenetrable walls. There he had his father, was fed well, and was safe from all Flame Tribesman everywhere. And didn't he have a faithful wyvern companion? Didn't he have royal allies? Of course, he was fortunate in a way no one else was._

 _What they all seemed to forget was his "disappearance". Dwyer was one of the few to notice how he changed after that. When Percy returned he went to see his tribe first, and as his aunt gave him an all-too-rare hug he locked eyes with his cousin from across the room. Percy would never forget that look of deep-knowing. Not for as long as he lived._

* * *

 _Ophelia once asked why he didn't try to re-forge his relationship with his cousin. To Percy, the answer was simple:_

 _"The past is always gonna be there. There's nothing he can do to change it, so what's the point of trying?"_


	3. III

**III**

 _age 9_

 _Summers on Ice Mountain were hot by their standards, but still bitingly cold to everyone else. He knew this because Arthur and Jakob told him so in their words and actions._

 _Even on dark-days when the wind altitude was low and snow was infrequent, his pops would still walk around in his winter gear while everyone else wore light, airy clothes. His mom would always tease him for it:_ my big strong hero, afraid of a little cold? _And he would laugh along with her, as was his way._

 _Uncle Jakob was another case. Aunt Flora was next in line to the chief's chair, and as her husband he was bound by certain social obligations—but ironically, he was also shielded from the consequences of bending those unspoken rules. And so: he'd host their weekly potlucks in the main hall, but kept the doors and windows sealed shut despite everyone else's discomfort. And so: when someone caught a summer cold, he'd show up at their door with soup and herbs in hand,_ I-told-you-so's _at the ready. And so: he'd forced Dwyer to wear his winter gear too, and then berate him when he passed out from overheating. But that was just Uncle Jakob: rancor laced everything he did._

 _Percy hadn't known Jakob long enough to ask him about his past directly, but he knew the gist of it: he came from a noble family but was abandoned one day at Krakenburg. Percy used to wonder why they did such a thing. Was their noble house in disarray, and they couldn't afford to support him anymore? Was he difficult and disrespectful even then, to the point that his parents threw up their hands and cast him to the wolves? Or were they simply callous enough to abandon their only child?_

 _No matter the reason, King Garon took pity on him and decided to keep him as a butler. All the other butlers and maids hated him because after so many years living as a noble, it simply wasn't in him to live his life through and for those above him. He was able to stay through King Garon's mercy alone, but even the kind-hearted king was happy to see him leave when he ran away to marry Aunt Flora._

 _His uncle once told him,_ there are two types of people in this world: the ones who command and the ones who serve. _Even after everything Percy mostly agreed, but his uncle was an anomaly in his own paradigm. He wouldn't serve others but rarely imposed his will on anyone either, preferring to stand by Aunt Flora's side and needle people from that place of relative safety. And since that was the case, what was the true purpose of a servant? What did they even_ do?

* * *

Percy never got more than three or four hours in before a brawl broke out and the noise shook him awake. The fights almost always involved one of the Strangers.

'Strangers' was what he came to call them in his head, the Underground thugs who helped them win the Battle of the Bridge and refused leave even after being paid. They fought each other all the time over missing belongings, scraps of food, and 'respect'. To Percy it just looked like the lot of them got bored easily, but no one from the tribe every called them out on their behavior. Usually his pops would be the one to break up the fights, which eventually made him the bane of the Strangers. Percy saw that animosity come to the head on what turned out to be his last night there.

He always slept along the edge of the wall, curled up against his father's back. Arthur was already asleep and Percy had been trying to when suddenly the warmth from his father was gone. One of the Strangers had gotten hold of Arthur and slammed him up against a wall, iron axe held high above his head and ready to come down.

Percy scrambled to his feet—but Aunt Flora beat him to the punch. She swatted the back of the Stranger's knees with her healing rod; he fell face-down, and Arthur got up. He picked up the Stranger's axe, and turned him over with his foot.

"Now, now, friend. Ambushing your _allies_ won't do during wartime, will it? Save your underhanded tactics for the unjust Flame Tribe!" Arthur's tone was light, but even Percy could see his grin was plastered on like a poorly done paint job. He didn't raise a hand against the Stranger—and why would he? The attack on his life had been a weak one, and his pops was merciful besides.

Or at least, that's what he thought then. In hindsight he could see hadn't been about mercy at all, but because Aunt Flora had to— _needed_ to—take care of it.

"How _dare_ you," she growled, digging her heel into his throat, "raise your hand to Chief Kilma's son-in-law?"

Behind her, Dwyer watched on with soulless eyes. The two of them hadn't spoken since the night Dwyer got his mom killed, but as his stump healed he'd taken to spending more and more time with Aunt Flora, watching her fill their grandpa's shoes. The old rules said that if a chief disappeared, there had to be a year-long waiting period in case they came back—so she hadn't officially taken on the title yet. In the meantime, she would prove her mettle.

Grinding the apex of her boot into his windpipe, she continued to talk the Stranger down like any good chief would. "You obviously aren't acquainted with the ways of our tribe. We don't take petty revenge. We don't attack our prey in their sleep. And most of all, we revere those who add to the chief's lineage. What you've done is unpardonable." She lifted her head and scanned the crowd around her, steely blue eyes pelting them like hail. _"Newcomers!_ Let this be your example! Our society is an open one, but we preserve our ways through our rules. Anyone who breaks them—pathetic as the attempt might be—will meet a swift end."

Without taking her eyes off the crowd, she held out her hand to Arthur. He gave her the axe.

Percy knew a weapon in his aunt's hand was horror waiting to happen, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. There was something about the way the rusted over axe caught the moon's glare, adding a luminous blush that swept along the curb as Aunt Flora raised it over her head.

The blade cut through the air swiftly, landing it squarely in the center of the Stranger's head. The blunt crunch of his skull splitting open reverberated throughout the fort, bouncing off the carcas walls. The cut wasn't clean. Blood gushed through the wound and all Percy could think was, _that was too easy._ All that blood from only one hit? It was just like water. It was too easy to make people bleed.

Like Dwyer had, the Stranger initially went ridged from the shock—but only for a moment. A guttural moan spilled from his lips. Calmly, Aunt Flora took her foot from her neck and stood at the Stranger's side. He writhed mindlessly, body twisting up slow and stiff like a pretzel. Until that point he had never seen anything so disturbing, the brain's total switch from cognizant to traumatically injured. Percy hugged his knees to his chest, tightening the grip with every wretched, mindless groan.

He began to convulse, and the shocked silence that had blanketed the crowed dissipated. There were shocked gasps, people covering the eyes of their children. His pops said something to Aunt Flora—Percy couldn't make it out, but it had to have triggered what happened next:

Aunt Flora raised the axe again. It didn't look so pretty a second time, covered in blood like it was. It looked dull, like even the moon couldn't bear to look at the reality of a chief's duties.

She brought it down, taking his head off in one slice. The body that once belonged to a Stranger continued to convulse, unable to make sense after losing the command center. The severed head lolled to the side, foam and spittle leaking from it's mouth and onto the hard packed floor.

Percy couldn't help it—he began to cry. Before that moment he had only seen snippets of the murder process: a lost limb here, a sword to the gut there, corpses with the soul already gone from their eyes. Watching the flame of life violently snuffed out from beginning to end was a new level of horror.

His pops spun around to face him, like he only just remembered his son was a few feet away.

(Had he seen everything? Of course he had. His son was an exemplary tribesman, he would never look away.)

* * *

Aunt Flora's "office" was nothing more than a deformity in the dragon, a calcified tumor that formed a wall around it's groin. His pops dragged him there and told him to wait outside while he had some words with their soon-to-be-chief.

Percy replayed the execution over and over again in his head, trying to make sense of it. His aunt cut the Stranger's head off, because…? Well, he was in pain. But she was the one who make him hurt in the first place, because… he tried to hurt his pops while he was sleeping. She said that was against the rules. But the Strangers had hurt other tribesmen, and she hadn't done anything to stop them—what made his pops so special? And by the moon and stars, _why did his dad let it happen?_ Why did he just _stand there?_

His thoughts were pockmarked by Flora and Arthur's voices from behind the bone wall. He was too lost in his head to pay attention to what they were saying, but he absently noted that his pops was talking _real_ loud and his aunt's tone was hissy like a snake. The air around him was so cold he could see his breath.

Arthur came barreling out the entranceway. He exhaled sharply and ran his fingers through his matted hair, face blossomed pink and shined over with sweat. "Good news, son." His father looked down at him, his smile tight as a clenched fist. "We're going back to Krakenburg!"

* * *

He fell asleep on the ride over, and had a dream about his mother.

She was dancing with the moon on top of Ice Mountain. Her silhouette burned black against the looking backdrop of the moon, starlight springing from her feet with each twirl. He'd seen her spin like that in life when a recipe turned out alright, or when Arthur came home safe, or when her Grandpa Kilma smiled real nice and called her his 'best girl'. Only when her joy was so huge it couldn't be hidden behind an icy mask.

When he woke that dark day, he wasn't sad. He wasn't even angry. His mom was free from the shackles of mortal living. How could he not be happy for her and her newfound freedom?

* * *

It'd been over a year since he'd been to the castle; it was easy to forget how his pops knew the place like the back of his hand. He walked the halls confidently, single-mindedly; he didn't even stop to greet any of the servants. They eventually came to a large, arched doorway guarded by two paladins. There was no door, just some gauzy curtain peeled back to one side. Arthur nodded in greeting to the guards, who wordlessly let them inside.

They stepped into a library lined floor-to-ceiling with books. At the far end was a curbed balcony, where a woman sat with her back turned away from them. On the table before her was a squat teapot and several small, round cups. As they came closer, the early fall wind blew around her, nearly knocking the tea set over.

"Oh, darn it!"

Until then he thought the Chevois spoke the strangest, but her voice carried a twang that went beyond a regional accent. She threw her hands on the table to keep her cups from flying away, and he saw her profile: her disheveled brown hair, round face dappled with freckles, the wildflower tucked behind her ear. _She must be a servant,_ Percy thought.

"My queen!" Arthur sprinted to her. "Are you alright?"

"I'm alright, just don't want nothin' to break. Xander got this for me for our one year, and I like to bring it out for special 'ccasions."

His pops smiled warmly. "I'm honored you would think of our humble meeting as special."

"Course I do! I've been wantin to meet your kid since you told me you was married!" The woman turned to face Percy, who couldn't believe a woman dressed in a sackcloth poncho could ever be queen. She smiled, baring her teeth without a care for the two that were missing. "You must be Percy."

"Queen?" he repeated softly, unable to keep it from sounding like a question as he tried to mentally tie the woman to the lofty title. "Y-you're Queen—"

"Mozu." She punched his father's arm playfully. "You mean you never told your boy about me?!"

"No, I do know you!" he blurted out. "Mom and dad told me all the time! King Garon and his kids were gonna go see the king of Hoshido, and on their way they found a town under attack by some bad guys. None of the villagers could fight, so Prince Xander _really_ wanted to help. But when they got to the center of town they found a big surprise." He paused here just like his mom would—for the biggest part, the _best_ part, the part that catapulted a certain Hoshidan peasant to the top of Nohrian society. "It was a girl—you!—standing on top of 100 dead bodies!"

"C'mon now, it wasn't no hundred." Queen Mozu tittered behind her sleeve. "Just a few dozen."

"But it was enough for Prince Xander to fall in love with you. Of course he did, you're awesome! And with a weapon you made all by yourself!"

"That's true. You wanna see it?"

"Yeah!"

It turned out that the library was Queen Mozu's study. Mounted to the wall behind her desk was the weapon that made her a legend: the 'naginata' forged from a simple wooden stick with a butcher's knife tied precariously to the end. "How did it not fall off?"

"To tell you the truth, I don't know. Guess the gods was on my side." She turned to Arthur. "But this ain't what you came to talk to me about, was it?"

His dad smiled wearily. "I can't say that it was."

"I told you not to let me go off like that, it ain't like a queen to lose her way."

"It isn't my place to correct you. Besides, it looked like my son was having a good time. I… didn't want to interrupt."

"Sure." She placed a hand on Percy's shoulder, and together they walked back to the balcony. There, Queen Mozu poured tea for herself and his pops. "You probably won't like this, kiddo. It's pretty bitter. I can have someone fetch you some juice, if you want."

"I'm okay," he told her, suddenly feeling shy. Before him was a true hero, married to the scariest man in all of Nohr. It occurred to him that he probably shouldn't act like they were friends.

She nodded and turned to his pops. "So, whaddya need?"

Arthur cleared his throat. "I'm sure you know about the Ice Tribe's current predicament."

"Oh, yeah. And I sure y'all took care of business."

"I'm sorry?"

Queen Mozu winked. "You know who I'm talkin' about! Y'all snuffed out the Flame Tribe, and now you wanna know what to do with the bodies. Well, first you gotta consider—"

Arthur held up his hand. "No— _no._ We escaped the woods, but the war is ongoing."

Queen Mozu loudly sucked her teeth. "Well darn it, Arthur! We sent you all those troops, and the _money—"_

"No." Arthur interrupted again, more forcefully. "You didn't send troops, you sent _criminals_ who are more interested in causing trouble than defeating the Flame Tribe. And the money is much appreciated, but between food and medical supplies we hardly have any left to spend on weapons or mercenaries."

"Either way, I can't give you no more. It's a miracle Xander didn't notice as is."

"Actually, I didn't come here for that." He smiled in that too-sweet way of his. "Seems you lost your way again, queen."

"Fiddlesticks! Fine. Just tell me what you need."

"Well, it isn't so much about _my_ needs, as it is about yours. Effie tells me you're in need of a new personal servant."

"Yeah. What about it?" he tone was curt. She took a long sip of her tea, eyes sinking into the dark green liquid.

Without looking away from her, Arthur gestured to Percy. "My son lives to serve others."

 _Be cold of heart, be stoic in character. A true Ice Tribesman is not a thin layer of frost, but a glacier that endures through time._

Queen Mozu sat back, glaring at the rim of her cup. "Thanks, but… no. That's not a good idea."

"I can see why you'd say that," Arthur continued, tone as breezy as the season. "You entertain guests! You oversee your son's training! You have your duties as a wife. You'd rather have someone older fill the position."

The queen smiled weakly. "I'm glad you underst—"

"But perhaps most importantly," Arthur interrupted, "you don't want another servant killed by Peri's hand. Your heart is as good as my son's is hard."

Percy didn't get what his father meant. His heart was hard? He'd never seen a heart up close enough to check, but he'd seen enough people stabbed through to know they weren't _that_ hard to destroy.

"Whaddya mean, 'hard'?"

"I mean what I say. You were hardly a teenager when you slaughtered the men who raided your village. My son is only nine, and yet he killed a Hoshidan ninja."

He came within an inch of shouting, _that's a lie!_ One of the only things he and Aunt Flora could agree on was that when it came to the ninja, all bets were off. _(A sibling for a sibling; a spouse for a spouse.)_

Queen Mozu leaned in close. "You killed a ninja, kid?"

He couldn't tell if she was impressed or mad or somehow aware of Arthur's fib, but Percy only passively stared back.

"He doesn't like talking about it," his pops answered for him. "I don't blame him. Sometimes, justice means vengeance. _Someone_ had to deal with the ninja who murdered Felicia. "

 _Justice means vengeance?_

Queen Mozu let go of the breath she'd been holding. "Right. Felicia."

"In front of our son. That man was cruelty, personified."

"Felicia never hurt nobody."

"No, she didn't."

"Felicia never did nothin' wrong."

"She died as she lived: protecting the tribe's future."

"Just like mama." Queen Mozu fiddled with the frayed edges of her poncho. "I know what it's like to see red after somethin' so raw. But how's that gonna help against Peri?"

"Because my son," Arthur's hand fell on his shoulder—reassuring and weighty, "would _never_ allow Felicia's heroic sacrifice be in vain. Nor would I risk him if I felt he couldn't handle a few well-aimed knives!"

"And it'll get him far from the war, I 'spose." Queen Mozu didn't look happy, watching Arthur like he was a shyster praying on the naïve _nouveau riche_. Her eyes flickered down to Percy. "Kid, if you wanna be a servant there's only one thing you gotta remember: make my life easier. Wash my clothes, brew my tea, cook food for my friends when they come 'round. Can you do that for me?"

Percy had never done those things before, but he nodded anyway.

"Good. Who knows, if you do your job good enough I might ease you on to helpin' my son. Though," the queen winked, "that'd probably just involve you runnin' 'round with him and the others."

Percy couldn't hold back his smile when he heard that, but the others didn't mind. Arthur even gave him a hug, holding him close for what felt like a long while.

* * *

 _They eventually built a monument for the fallen. Etched onto it was the phrase: To Those Who Died from the War._

 _Dwyer insisted it would never truly be finished because of the wording. Those who died_ in _the war were eventually all accounted for, and of course it was a finite number. But to die_ from _the war was another story, because it included those who died from the aftershocks. The children who passed from starvation after their parents were killed in the Final Attack? Died from the war. The only survivor of a once sprawling clan hanging herself? Died from the war. The teen blacksmith who never got to learn the trade from his father getting burnt to a crisp? Died from the war._

 _Percy couldn't care less about how anyone got up there. What bothered him was his Uncle Jakob's presence on the wall, how his name was the first etched in, right in the center, larger and more deeply engraved than everyone else's. It made sense, in a way: just like Grandma and his pops and everyone else who ever married into their family, those who added to the chief's lineage were honored by the tribe. That Uncle Jakob died in such a brutal way only added a mythical angle to him, like he was a saintly apparition who came from a faraway land, brought Dwyer into existence, and then sacrificed himself on behalf of the tribe._

 _They all forgot how mean he was. They all forgot how he barely seemed to like his little family. No one acknowledged how he actually came to marry Flora. And all those things would stay forgotten as long as his name was up there in bold._

 _Ophelia came to pay her respects once, after hearing enough about him to conjure up an image in her head. Percy asked her what she thought and she skirted around the question, dropping non-answer after non-answer, before he finally told her that Jakob valued honesty above niceties. And she looked up at his name, she said that was the first kind thing anyone had ever said about him. She was glad to know he was honest even when it hurt._

 _As they walked away Percy told her, "don't let anybody lie about me after I die. I want to be remembered like I really am, warts and all!"_

 _Ophelia sighed so heavily it almost sounded like a heave. For a split second she looked like she might be sick—but at once the look was gone, replaced by a cheeky smile. "But how can I do that when I'll be long dead myself?"  
_

* * *

 _As much as he loved Queen Mozu, she was wrong—but Jakob was wrong, too. To serve wasn't an action but a state of being. His whole life belonged to his princess, so what other responsibility did he have but to survive?_


End file.
